Page 29 of Vengeance in Venice (Murder in Moonlight #6)

F or the first time since she had been ill, Constance didn’t have the urge to sleep every half-hour.

She sat on the drawing room balcony in the surprisingly warm spring sunshine and flexed her fingers and toes.

She felt as if she were absorbing the light like a sickly plant and growing stronger with every moment.

Solomon sat beside her as they watched the passing boats and the lively interactions of the people below. Folk were much less inhibited here. Even the wealthy seemed to call loud greetings and jokes from windows to boats, or even hold long conversations. Yet it all felt curiously peaceful.

She and Solomon did not discuss the case for some time, though she was mulling over the recent conversation with Giusti and Elena, and suspected Solomon was doing the same. The gentle companionship was precious. This was still their honeymoon.

Solomon said, “Do you believe them?”

“Yes,” she replied, knowing exactly whom and what he meant. “I want to, of course, but I do think it was the truth at last.”

He nodded. “It seemed so to me. So, if we rule them out, what is our next step?”

“Premarin. If he will talk to us. And Rossi, when he comes. I also think we need to exchange views with the police.”

“With Foscolo,” Solomon said, “while Lampl is not… overseeing him.”

It made sense. Foscolo was the man who did the work, who knew about crime.

Lampl was there to serve Austria’s interests, whatever that entailed.

Since Savelli had been Austria’s friend, she presumed the two men were pulling in the same direction, however irritably.

But perhaps that depended on who the culprit was.

Solomon said, “Look. It’s Kellar.”

Following his gaze, she saw the Englishman in his gondola, shaded from the sun, being rowed along the canal. He looked immensely comfortable, but he appeared to be gazing in their direction.

Solomon lifted his hand in greeting, and won an immediate response. “Shall we invite him up?”

During the worst of Constance’s illness, her mother had often crept into her mind.

Odd memories of childhood comfort that she thought she had forgotten, maddening incidents of neglect and quarrels, and the guilty recognition that she knew nothing of Juliet’s life before .

She had been more interested in her unknown and mysterious father.

“Yes,” she said, “if he will come.”

Solomon stood and leaned over the balcony, beckoning. The boatman steered closer to the side and Kellar, presumably absorbing the habits of the natives, called up, “How is Mrs. Grey?”

Constance waved and smiled, and Solomon called back, “Come and see, if you have time.”

Apparently Kellar had time, for the boatman eased his vessel against the steps and Kellar rose from his comfortable seat and stepped ashore with the ease of long practice.

“Are you sure you are up to this?” Solomon asked her. “I can take him somewhere else while you rest here.”

“I am bored with resting. And I’m curious.”

He smiled, her answer clearly pleasing him. “I daresay it is a civilized hour now for wine and cicchetti.”

He went into the room to greet Kellar, who sounded both jovial and anxious about Constance’s health. Solomon placed a chair for him in the balcony doorway, as he requested.

“Even at this time of year, the direct sun bothers my eyes,” he said. “Old age is both a blessing and a curse.”

“You are hardly old,” Constance scoffed.

“I am six and fifty, so I am hardly young.” His piercing gray eyes fixed on her face. “You have had a bad time. There are all sorts of rumors flying around Venice. The consul is appalled, and not a little frightened.”

“Fortunately, no one else seemed to be affected,” Solomon said.

“Which is significant,” Kellar said, meeting his gaze. “I have a country house in Tuscany that you are welcome to use, once you are fit to travel.”

“That is very kind of you,” Solomon said.

“It is a most disturbing event. I suppose there is no doubt that it was poison?”

“Not according to the doctor—who believes she only survived because she ingested so little.”

“Or because no one intended me to die in the first place,” Constance said. “Just to frighten me away.”

Kellar regarded her. “And they haven’t, have they?” he said slowly. “Is that because you are foolishly brave? Just foolish? Or because you know who did it?”

“We have a few theories,” Solomon said.

Kellar grimaced. “I imagine I must feature there.”

“Your name was on the list,” Constance said, “but we could find no motive.”

His eyes twinkled at her bluntness. “I have none,” he assured her. “I wanted to marry your mother, you know.”

“ Juliet? ” Constance said in disbelief, before she could stop herself.

Kellar smiled. “Why should that surprise you? Presumably she married someone .”

Constance, thinking of Solomon, merely smiled back and kept the truth to herself, although curiosity surged. “How did you meet my mother?”

“At a garden party. The sun shone on her hair like a halo.” Kellar inclined his head. “Much as it does on yours now. I all but forced our hostess to introduce us, and I courted your mother most assiduously.”

This sounded like respectability of a kind totally alien to Juliet—or at least Constance’s knowledge of her. Suspicions rose.

“Did her family approve?” she asked lightly.

Kellar’s mouth quirked. “You are trying to catch me out. I don’t blame you for your suspicion, considering what happened to you.

But we both know she had no family. She was the companion of a rather terrifying old lady.

Or, at least, she seemed old to me at the time.

She was probably forty years old. In any case, I was young and brash and I was not interested in anyone’s approval except Juliet’s. And I thought I had it.”

Just for an instant, his sharp eyes softened with reminiscence. But he was not, it seemed, a man who dwelled in the past or wallowed in regrets, for when he blinked, the tender expression had vanished.

“But you did not?” Constance prompted him.

“Have her approval? Yes, I think I did. Just not…enough.”

“Why was that?” Constance asked, aware she was going beyond interest to inquisitiveness.

“Honestly? I never discovered. The best I can think of myself is that my posting to America loomed. I was swept off my feet and assumed she would prefer the adventure of marriage as a diplomat’s wife to the respectable drudgery of her present life.

I think it was too quick for her, an irretrievable decision she was not yet ready to make.

She refused my offer and I went to America alone.

She never answered my letters. But I never forgot her. ”

There was genuine feeling in his voice, but he was not, somehow, the kind of man one felt sorry for. He was not inviting sympathy or reciprocal confidences. Constance, who hadn’t quite got past the idea of Juliet as companion to a respectable old lady, could think of nothing to say.

He was watching her steadily. “I think you too are a remarkable woman. You must tell me about your father one day.”

“One day,” she said, “I might. A glass of wine, Mr. Kellar?”

“Why not?” He sighed with contentment as the servants brought the usual wine and savories. “There are reasons Venice is my favorite city in Italy.” He raised his glass to them. “To La Serenissima , and your continued recovery, Mrs. Grey.”

Constance mixed a small amount of wine with water, and risked nibbling at the plainest savory on offer, something with ham and apple.

“We would value your help, sir,” Solomon said. “Is there anything you can tell us about Angelo Savelli that might shed light on his murder?”

“I did not know him well anyway, but no, I know nothing to his discredit—save his enmity with Giusti, which was mostly habit and instinct, from all I can gather. I liked him.” Kellar gave a wry smile.

“There was something almost British about his reserve. And like most people, I found his wife fascinating.”

“What about Nicolo Premarin and his wife?”

“All things to all men. A pragmatist and a danger to no one. I’m not sure I have met his wife, though gossip says she is younger.” He cocked an eyebrow. “You are seriously considering them for the murder? And the poisoning, since I presume they are connected.”

“We presume so, too.”

“For what it is worth,” Kellar said slowly, “I have heard that he is a worried man. There is no obvious sign of business difficulties and he did survive revolution and war. But I do wonder if everything is as safe for him as most people assume.”

“He lost a valuable government contract to Savelli,” Constance said.

Kellar, probably more used to absorbing gossip than spreading it, merely gave a thoughtful nod.

“Worried men make bad decisions,” Solomon remarked, “and can act quite out of character.”

Kellar gazed out over the canal. “He has many friends in Venice. And all over Italy.”

A shiver passed over Constance. She stared at Kellar’s half-averted face. Was that a warning?

*

After a light luncheon, Solomon went out to try again to see Premarin.

In the light of Kellar’s warning—if that was what it was—Constance felt uneasy about his going alone.

On the other hand, while she was happy to take short walks and long rests in the little garden at the side of the house, she doubted she was up to visiting.

It annoyed her, because this was, presumably, what the poisoner had wanted. To slow them down and halt their inquiries. If only she knew what it was that had frightened the murderer into such a risky attack, something she or Solomon had said or done that the police had not…

Solomon left her with the notes when he escorted her into the little courtyard garden. She did not spread them about this time —for one thing, the wind was likely to carry them off, and for another, she just wanted to read them straight through, with all their thoughts and speculations.